


Life After Hell

by GalaxyBrownies



Series: Oumota Fics [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Cuddling, Gay denial, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Virtual Reality, eating disorder mention but no one really has one, emotional resolution, past trauma, they love each other but they’re so fucking stupid I’m sorry, they’re my babeys, this is a sequel, virtual reality au, vr au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 06:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyBrownies/pseuds/GalaxyBrownies
Summary: (Sequel toA Train To Nowhere. Please read that first.)Ouma and Momota cope with life after leaving the killing game virtual reality.
Relationships: Momota Kaito/Oma Kokichi
Series: Oumota Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543135
Comments: 8
Kudos: 182





	Life After Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you like this!

“Momota-chan, it’s your turn.”

Momota snaps back to attention to see Ouma tapping his fingers against the carpet and looking at him with an impatient glare. “Oh.” Momota glances at his cards before placing two face down on the stack in front of him. “Two kings.”

Ouma raises an eyebrow. “Bullshit.”

Momota sighs and scoops the cards back up into his hand. “Remind me why I agreed to play this with you again?”

“Ah, because since we woke up you’ve been dying to talk to me but were too awkward to find an opportunity, so I offered a game of Bullshit and you snapped up the bait like a starving fish, and now you’re trying to figure out the proper time to bring up that time you murdered me and the chat we had in the ‘afterlife’?” Ouma taps his chin. “But I could be wrong.”

Momota blinks in surprise, speechless. “I mean… yeah?”

Ouma hums, sliding three cards forward. “Three aces.”

Momota narrows his eyes. “Bullshit.”

Ouma tsks, flipping the cards to reveal his stated hand. “Wrong, my beloved Momota-chan.” Momota growls somewhere in his throat before picking the cards up. “I must have some luck after all! Well, I guess that only makes sense, considering my given name.”

“Little luck, right?” Momota asks, tossing down a card. “One two.”

Ouma regards him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Two threes.” Momota glances at the thin, pale hand that gently presses two cards into the stack on the carpet. He’s shaking slightly, like he hasn’t eaten in a day or so. Momota bets that if he held his hand, it would be as cold as ice. Not that he would have any reason to hold his hand, of course.

Of course.

“Three fours.”

“That’s some bullshit if I ever heard it,” Ouma immediately crows. “I played two fours last time around, and then had to pick them up when you called Bullshit on me on my next turn. You don’t keep very good track of the cards. This game is supposed to be eaaasy with only two people!”

Momota fumbles with his overly large hand of cards as he adds even more in. “Well, not all of us could be blessed with a genius personality by the people who run this hellhole.” The hellhole being the rehabilitation center they’d been staying in for the week they’d been awake and mobile. 

They were supposed to stay for a year, then they’d get transferred to the Team Danganronpa apartment complex next door until the season’s hype died down and there was no more cash to squeeze out of the traumatized group. As soon as he moved into an apartment he’d be expected to go to interviews and meet and greets and conventions as Momota Kaito, Luminary of the Stars. The thought of it made Momota want to bash his head into a table.

Ouma hums. “It really is quite awful, isn’t it? You know full well that you could have been just as cunning as me, but apparently you exuded Peak Dumbass Energy, so they figured they were better off working with what they already had. Two fives.” Momota tries not to stare at his thin, trembling fingers as they slide two cards between them.

Momota scoffs. “Firstly, bullshit, and secondly, I am _not_ a dumbass. And even if I was, I bet the old me was so smart they decided they needed to dumb me down so I wouldn’t destroy the game.”

“Oh, so you admit that you’re an idiot?” Kokichi asks, returning the two cards to his hand. So Momota got it right, he’d lied. It was rare for Momota to ever successfully call bullshit on one of Ouma’s hands, and mostly did it by chance rather than by seeing his facial expression and determining that he lied.

“If it’ll get you to shut up about it, fine,” Momota answers gruffly. They continue playing in silence for a few moments before Ouma finally sets down his last card.

“I win,” he declares, already scooping up the pile and taking Momota’s cards out of his hands. Momota shivers when his cold fingers brush up against his. 

“Your hands are fucking freezing,” Momota comments. “Are you eating?”

Ouma puffs out a cheek indignantly. “Of course I’m eating, sillyhead!”

_Liar._

“I don’t… believe you,” Momota responds. “Bullshit.”

Ouma scowls. “Even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be any of your business anyway. But I am, so it’s double not your business.”

“Well, if that’s true, then it’s lunchtime anyway, so we should go eat.” Momota knows he’s lying. There’s no way Ouma could get that pale and skinny if he was eating. He was already a stick during the game, so now he just looks scarily thin. Momota worries he’d snap him in two if he so much as touched him.

Ouma fidgets with his generic white T-shirt. There isn’t much opportunity for variety in fashion, here. He has his scarf, and Momota has his jacket, but neither wear them very often. They’re comforting to wear, like a wearable hug, which was precisely why it feels so disturbing to wear them. It’s like the feeling of attachment to the items was programmed into them, it’s artificial. Momota can’t wear his coat without remembering Ouma’s pale and shaking and dying body laying across it on the hydraulic press, and Ouma can’t wear his scarf without remembering his secret society members that never really existed in the first place. At the same time, a sense of warmth washes over them when they wear the items, despite the feeling of sickness deep in their stomachs. It’s like Team Danganronpa wanted a quick ‘good feelings’ button to push when the trauma got too real.

“Fine. I’ll eat with you. Because I’m _fine_,” Ouma insists, eyes boring into Momota like two white-hot drills.

Momota shrugs. “Alright.” He stands and offers a hand to help Ouma up, but he pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the offered assistance.

They make their way to the rehabilitation center’s dining hall, walking in comfortable silence. Neither were exactly the type for small talk, and any of the conversations they really needed to have weren’t the type to have while walking somewhere. No, they’d be better served talking alone in a secluded room, not out in an open hallway where anyone could hear the emotional guts spewing from their mouths. Momota had an image to maintain, after all.

There’s only Akamatsu and Harukawa in the dining hall when they arrive. Harukawa glances towards Momota and Ouma instantly, staring for probably longer than was necessary at Momota with an expression of indecision before focusing a more hateful gaze at Ouma. She snaps her eyes away and stands sharply, dumping her food tray in the trash and pushing past the duo to leave the room. Seems her hatred for the small boy outweighs her proclaimed love for Momota. Akamatsu glances up at the two and gives a little wave before turning back to her food. She was always nice to talk to, she never held any judgment in her eyes.

After Momota and Ouma grab their food and sit down at a corner of the room, Momota fixes Ouma with a look that asks him to eat. It isn’t that he particularly cares about him, of course.

Of course.

It’s just that he looks pretty pale and his hands are freezing and clammy. Momota’s sure that if Ouma had his shirt off, his ribs would be clearly visible and easy to count. It appeals to Momota’s good nature, he can’t just watch someone slowly deteriorate like that. And that’s the only reason, Momota tells himself.

Ouma sighs and digs his spoon through the mush that’s supposed to count as mashed potatoes. They’re a bit gooier than mashed potatoes are supposed to be, and sort of liquidy. Honestly, Momota wouldn’t blame Ouma for not eating if he thought the quality of the food was the reason.

Ouma sticks the spoon in his mouth and swallows the spoonful of potatoes with a raised eyebrow in Momota’s direction, like he’s saying ‘_see, I eat just fine_’. He continues eating after that, not showing any signs of distress or difficulty keeping it down.

Momota nods and takes a bite of his own food. If Ouma is having trouble eating properly, he feels it’s probably more due to memories of what happened in the simulation than an actual restrictive eating disorder. He himself sometimes gets too nauseous from the thoughts and memories to eat properly. It didn’t help that his brain still somewhat thinks that he’s sick, so he’d occasionally have a coughing fit, or hallucinate the constant taste of iron in his mouth from blood that no longer filled it. It isn’t easy to eat when your body is convinced that it’s dying.

He’s completely cleared of disease of course, since it really only existed in the simulation. He sometimes has residual coughing fits because of how convinced his brain is that he’s still ill, but they’re entirely dry and bloodless. The first time it happened outside the simulation, Momota nearly had a panic attack thinking it was all happening again. He’s glad no one saw him. He has an image to maintain.

“Momota-chan, you’re neglecting your food,” Ouma calls out in an utterly unimpressed tone. “Hypocrite,” he mumbles under his breath. 

Momota jolts out of his thoughts, regretting the tangent of speculation he’d fallen into now that he was beginning to feel the start of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

“You know, if you don’t feel like eating right now, you don’t _have_ to,” Ouma says. “Just eat later. It’s not worth puking over.”

Momota forces a wide, confident smile onto his face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he responds, waving off Ouma’s (surprising) concern. He sticks a bite of mashed potatoes into his mouth, grimacing at the texture. Runny and gooey. Disgusting. The taste doesn’t exactly help his nausea, but Momota swallows hard until he stops feeling the lump of dread in his throat.

Ouma rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” The smaller boy finishes his food much faster than Momota, who was still struggling through his portion without choking every other bite. Ironic. Ouma stands to dump his food tray and leave. “Nice chat, Momota-chan,” Ouma drawls sarcastically.

All Momota can do to answer is shoot him a wavering smile.

———

The next time Momota spends time on his own with Ouma is two days later, in the community lounge area. It’s an open space with magazine racks and a TV on the wall, but none of the channels are any good and all the magazine issues are old. 

Momota reads an old article about space he found at the back of the shelves, even though it’s from a full decade ago and scientific advancements have gone much farther than they were. He isn’t even sure why he’s still so fixated on the stars, since his interest in them is as artificial as he himself is. Momota’s sure he should find something else to interest him, but space is still somewhat of a comfort subject for him. It almost feels wrong for him to accept his implanted Ultimate Talent like that, but he can’t help it. It’s so ingrained in his scripted personality that trying to remove it would be like trying to remove plant roots that wrap around and wind through a still beating heart. He’d be destroyed in the process.

“I guess Momota-chan would be the type to accept his talent,” Ouma says suddenly, startling Momota with how he suddenly appears. Momota glances up from his magazine.

“Give me some warning next time, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” he scolds, but there isn’t any real anger behind it.

Ouma flops down on a cushion beside him, throwing his arms behind his head and leaning back. “Whaaaaat? It’s a fair assumption,” he replies, purposefully assuming it was his statement that annoyed Momota. “Akamatsu-chan still plays the piano for Saihara-chan, and Chabashira-chan is working on strengthening her real life muscles so she can pull off all those cool Neo-Aikido moves she has locked away in her brain. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you still being a space nerd.”

Momota scowls. “What about you? Doing any supreme leadering lately?”

Ouma has a deadpan expression when he responds. “It’s only been like… a week. Tyrannical regimes take a little longer to be established.” He shifts his expression into a more mischievous look. “Not for the _Ultimate_ Supreme Leader, thooouuugh. Watch out, Momota-chan, or the fabric of society will crumble apart before your eyes!”

“Bullshit.”

“We aren’t playing cards anymore, dummy.” Ouma kicks his legs from the side of the couch for a few seconds in silence before leaning over Momota’s shoulder to read his article. “Woooow, how boring. That article is pretty lame.”

Momota grits his teeth. “It’s not for you,” he replies. “If you’re going to criticize me, can you just leave?”

Ouma pouts, hanging off Momota’s shoulder. If he was at his full weight, Momota’s sure he’d be pulling on his shoulder hard enough to hurt, but he seems lighter than a plastic bag at the moment. “I was just lying, though. What’s that constellation?”

“Hm?” Momota hums, following Ouma’s finger to the star pattern. “Oh. Cetus. You can only see it in the southern hemisphere, but it’s one of the largest constellations we know. It’s supposed to be some sea monster from Greek mythology.”

“Ooooh,” Ouma coos respectively. “That’s neat. I bet you know all sorts of stuff like that! They really stuffed your brain full of useless space knowledge, huh?”

Despite knowing that Ouma’s only trying to get a rise out of him, Momota can’t help but reply defensively. “It’s not useless!” He responds, grip on the magazine pages tightening slightly. “The constellations hold a lot of different stories and myths and stuff. Lots of morals and all that.”

“Whatever Momota-chan says,” Ouma replies, propping his chin on Momota’s shoulder. “I think he likes the sky more than he likes himself.”

Momota grits his teeth. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s truuuuuue,” Ouma replies, crossing his eyes and poking Momota’s cheek. “I thought you wanted me to be more truthful. Was that your lie, Momo-chan?” Ouma pouts slightly as he finishes, uncrossing his eyes.

Momota rolls up the magazine and whaps Ouma on the head with it. “Stop being a pest,” he complains, unrolling it and smoothing it back down. 

“Momota should really go to therapy like he’s supposed to,” Ouma says suddenly, in a much more serious tone than he was using before. He sits back, off of Momota’s shoulder, and studies his reaction with a neutral expression.

“You don’t even go to that half-baked therapist.”

“Correction: I did go, but I was so awful and cruel to the therapist that they kicked me out permanently!” Ouma cheers. “Who knew, it’s easy to get even a therapist to give up on you with the help of an implanted psychopathic personality!”

“You’re not a psychopath,” Momota replies immediately. “I think I said as much before.”

Ouma waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, semantics.”

“Shuuichi goes to his therapist. You should give it another try.”

Ouma gives him a blank, almost patronizing look. “And why should I care about what Saihara-chan does?”

“Well-” Momota splutters, fighting the immediate embarrassment that threatens to spill over into his expression, “you like… _like_ him or something… right? I’m pretty sure you did, right?”

“I don’t like Saihara-chan,” Ouma replies simply, hopping up from his seat on the couch. “I haven’t for a while.”

“Oh.”

“I just remembered I have somewhere to be.”

“Okay?” It’s an obvious lie, but Momota doesn’t see a reason to call him out on it. Even if he was sort of enjoying the company and conversation, it wouldn’t be fair to deny Ouma the right to leave when he wanted, especially considering the uncomfortable subject he’d just brought up. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Ouma doesn’t reply, glancing at him one more time before he leaves the room. 

Momota sighs and drops his magazine onto the side table by the couch. He doesn’t feel like reading anymore.

———

Momota’s in nothingness. 

It’s dark and cold and he doesn’t even have the benefit of an empty train car to separate him from the void this time. Momota knows this is a dream.

“It’s all your fault, you know. It’s your fault I never feel strong enough to help anyone. You don’t try hard enough.”

Shuuichi’s voice is sharp and cold. It echoes through nothingness. It sounds nothing like him. It sounds so much like him that Momota wants to die.

“If you had only tried harder, we wouldn’t have to carry these burdens. You’re weak.”

Harumaki isn’t looking at him. She doesn’t look at him all that much anymore. He’s sure he deserves it. 

“You saw me struggling to keep everyone together and you did nothing. It’s your fault I died.”

Momota doesn’t know Akamatsu all that well, but he knows she’s right. They’re all right. It’s his fault. It’s always his fault.

Momota sees his faults laid out in front of him, plain and bare to see. Momota swallows a pit of dread in his throat and tries to ignore how familiar it feels to do so. He wants to cough and hack and puke his doubts and fears and shortcomings out so at least they’ll be _gone_. They’ll all be _gone_ and he’ll be just as he’s supposed to be. He’ll be just as everyone needs him to be.

Momota watches his past take shape in front of him, and he does what he does best. Momota runs.

In dreams, running is never quite right. It’s like molasses, like your surroundings melt and morph around you while the thing you dread creeps ever closer. Momota runs, and runs, until his chest burns with a familiar feeling and he has to double over with his hands on his knees. His diaphragm contracts violently and blood erupts from his mouth in a crimson splatter. 

He feels three pairs of hands grab his shoulders. Momota turns around. There’s only one person there.

“Didn’t you enjoy killing me, Momota-chan?” Ouma asks.

Momota wakes up, half falling off the bed. The sheets are twisted around his legs and he’s covered in a cold sweat. He pushes himself back up onto the bed and fumbles around in the dark for his lamp switch before he finds it and casts the room in a dim gold light.

Momota takes a moment to calm himself. Nightmares like that are a nightly routine, so he should really be used to them by now. It bothers him that he’s still having them. How can he be strong for everyone else when he’s experiencing something only weak people should ever go through?

Momota untangles his bedsheets and crawls out of bed, shakily steadying himself before stepping into a pair of slippers and grabbing his room key. He won’t be sleeping any more tonight, so he might as well grab something to eat and start his day.

On his way to the kitchen for his morning snack, Momota is distracted by muffled children’s songs playing through the corridors. It’s three in the morning, and no person in their right mind should be awake. Which meant that only left the people who aren’t right in their mind. Which left…

“Ouma,” Momota greets, pushing open the common room door to the sight of the small boy covered in blankets in a cocoon on the couch. There’s an incessantly annoying little kids’ cartoon playing on the television, but it doesn’t look like he’s paying much attention to it.

Ouma jumps in surprise, whirling around to meet Momota’s eyes. He shivers. Ouma’s eyes don’t carry the judgment they had in his dream, but despite how pretty his eyes can be, Momota can’t stand looking at them. It’s a shame, really. Ouma really is pretty. He’s got a sharp jawline and bright eyes, and when he lies or knows something no one else does, the corner of his mouth tends to quirk up just the slightest bit. Not that Momota pays attention to those sorts of things. 

Ouma smiles just a little bit, and Momota feels something in his chest twist.

Alright, maybe he _does_ pay attention to those things a little bit. But none of that is the point.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Momota asks, scratching at the back of his head. He lets his shoulders slump slightly in exhaustion.

“When did I ever say I couldn’t sleep, Momota-chan?” Ouma asks, yawning.

Momota raises an eyebrow. “It’s three in the morning.”

“It’s never too early to watch crappy children’s entertainment,” Ouma protests. He looks away from Momota and curls up deeper into his blanket nest. Momota sits next to him and the cocoon shifts slightly closer to him. This doesn’t escape Momota’s notice.

“You alright, man?” Momota knows he most likely isn’t, but getting Ouma to admit how he actually feels is important, when he’s able to wring the truth out of him.

“I’m fine,” Ouma responda in a chipper voice. “Momota-chan is just sooooooo warm. I’m super small and scrawny, you know. I get cold easily!”

“Oh, really?” Momota asks. “Then you totally wouldn’t mind if I did this?” He wraps an arm around Ouma and tugs him closer, so that his head is resting against Momota’s chest. Ouma tenses immediately.

“What are you doing.”

“You claim you’re freezing,” Momota shrugs.

“Since when has Momota-chan cared when I’m cold or not?”

Momota looks at him like he’s grown a third eye. “I care a lot about your wellbeing,” Momota replies candidly. “I want you to be okay, Ouma.”

Ouma doesn’t say anything for a good moment, focusing hard on the television. When he replies, the sudden sound is enough to make Momota jump.

“This isn’t your job,” he mutters, the words sounding harsher than their meaning. The mood change is swift and unexpected. Momota can’t help but feel like he hit a sore point accidentally.

“What?” 

“I said that _this isn’t your job_, Momota-chan!” Ouma repeats, spitting the words out of his mouth like they’re venom. “It’s not your job to be everyone’s therapist! Stop… stop pretending you aren’t as fucked up as the rest of us, because this hero act grew stale in the first act of the killing game.”

Momota flinches.

“Oh?” Ouma croons. He wriggles out of Momota’s grasp, turning to face him. Momota cringes at the expression on his face. He’s thrown himself fully into his old persona. “Did that _upset_ Momota-chan? Did I _hurt_ Momota-chan? Well maybe Momota-chan should stop trying to babysit everyone, because all you’ll do is make everyone worse if you don’t work on yourself first.”

It’s actually… solid advice?

“Ouma…” 

“No, shut up.” Ouma slaps a hand over Momota’s mouth, muffling any speech. “Momota-chan tries soooooo hard to help everyone! He tries so hard that he lets himself die to do it. We don’t need you to die for us, Momota-chan.” Momota looks down at him and realizes that this isn’t his in-game facade at all. This is something new. “Momota-chan is so critical of how I hide how I feel, but he does the same exact thing! You wear masks too, my beloved Momo-chan! You superglued them to your face, and when they were finally peeled off, all that was left was blood and gore and pain. You hid so much that you actually died for our sins!” Ouma cackles. “You aren’t some western god, so you need to stop acting like one and realize that you’re just a fucking person like the rest of us.”

Momota doesn’t reply.

Something in Ouma’s eyes softens slightly and he leans back on Momota’s chest. “Momota-chan cares too much about everyone,” Ouma decides. 

Momota’s head drops, forehead nudging against the top of Ouma’s head. The arm around him tightens slightly. His words were harsh. They were harsh, but they were confident, and they were exactly what Momota needed to hear.

“Ouma…”

“Shut up.”

Momota tugs him closer and squeezes him tighter, enveloping him in a full hug. Ouma’s breath stutters in his throat. Ouma struggles for a moment before Momota squeezes again and he stops.

Momota glances down. Ouma’s face has the grumpiest expression he thinks he’s ever seen. It’s enough to cause him to snicker a little, which causes Ouma’s face to become even grumpier. It isn’t long before he’s wholeheartedly laughing at the boy in his arms, who rolls his eyes and bites a lip to stop himself from laughing. 

“...Thanks, Ouma.” It’s easier to thank him than he thought it would be. The sight of the small boy in his arms causes something warm to bloom in his chest. Momota doesn’t like the feeling, but he hugs him closer anyway.

“Momota-chan… Momota-chan just needs someone to take care of him too, you know,” Ouma replies, decidedly not looking at him.

“I’m not gonna stop trying to help you.”

Ouma huffs. “I know.” It just isn’t in Momota’s nature to ignore people who need help. “For the time being, though, can we just… sit here? For a while? I know the stuff on TV is garbage but that’s a good thing.”

“Why is that a good thing?” Momota asks, shifting his position on the couch so that he’s laying down with Ouma curled up beside him.

“It’s mindless,” Ouma shrugs. “Makes for good thinking.”

“You think too much.”

“You feel too much,” Ouma retorts. “You don’t think I don’t remember you asking if I ‘also’ couldn’t sleep? You had a nightmare, right?”

“I hate you sometimes,” Momota decides, knowing that it currently isn’t the truth.

Ouma snickers but doesn’t leave the topic. “Momota-chan should reaaaally go to his therapist,” Ouma says.

“We already talked about this,” Momota frowns.

“Yeah, but Momota-chan got all deflecty and talked about _my_ therapist instead!” Ouma replies. “I’m talking about _his_ therapist. I bet she’s soooo lonely, you know! I bet she cries every session you don’t show up, hoping you’ll return!”

“I don’t think she cares that much.”

“Ohh, I bet she does! I bet she sobs eeevery day, like ‘_Oh Momota-san! How I wish he’d come in for therapy so I wouldn’t be so lonely!_’” Ouma grins. “Then you go in and sweep her off her feet.”

“I’m not gonna romance the therapist lady,” Momota replies, rolling his eyes. “She’s being paid by Team Danganronpa anyway. I don’t want anyone on their payroll near me.”

“We’re both on their payroll,” Ouma replies.

Momota playfully punches his arm, scowling. “You know what I meant.”

Ouma hums, pressing his face into Momota’s chest. Momota thinks he’s done talking. He never seemed to have a limit in the game, but he does now. He wraps his arms around the smaller boy again, and doesn’t want to ever let go. He looks down at his messy head of black hair and feels the need to do… something. The warmth in his chest twists and squeezes, but Momota knows it isn’t anything like the disease because the disease never felt so nice.

The drone of the tv and the weight of Ouma on his chest are proving to make him sleepier with every passing second now that the conversation is over. Every breath he takes and every breath he feels from Ouma push him closer into sleep. Soon Momota’s eyelids begin to flutter and finally close. 

Momota doesn’t dream that night.

When Momota wakes up, Ouma is still asleep on his chest. He takes stock of the situation and finds that at some point during the night they started holding hands. Their fingers are intertwined with each other the way a couple’s would be. Momota feels a hot flush steadily work its way across his cheeks, but doesn’t pull his hand away. If he did, then Ouma would wake up and realize what happened, right? That was a good enough excuse in Momota’s mind to keep holding his hand.

He presses his forehead into the mess of vaguely-curly hair in front of him. It’s normally not super curly, mostly just swooping upwards on the ends, but sleep has tangled Ouma’s hair into a mess. Momota learns that his hair smells like vanilla a split second before he realizes that he shouldn’t be _smelling Ouma’s hair, that’s creepy_.

Without thinking, he places a mindless kiss into the curls. He remains calm with his eyes closed for half a moment before realization kicks in and his eyes fly open again. What is _wrong_ with him? He shouldn’t be kissing Ouma. First of all, Momota isn’t gay. Second of all, he and Ouma have a very fragile rivalic relationship. Mostly made fragile by the fact that Momota apparently has the urge to kiss him. 

Momota doesn’t want to kiss Ouma. He’s sure of it. There’s no way he’d want his lips anywhere near the small devil’s mouth. He’d kissed his head in a friendly sort of way. Sure, he doesn’t think he’d do the same to, say, Shuuichi if given the chance, and he’s never really fallen asleep while holding someone so close before, but it really isn’t like that.

He respects Ouma. He _killed_ Ouma. Momota doesn’t have a right to any of this.

Despite that fact, he can’t help but rub small circles into the supreme leader’s back, listening to the soft contented noises he makes while he sleeps. Can’t help but think about how cute he is when he isn’t getting people killed and pretending to be evil. Ouma’s just… a person. He’s just a person who wanted to live. Momota doesn’t agree with how he acted in the game, but he can understand it. 

When Ouma finally begins to stir, Momota finally withdraws his hand from where his fingers are intertwined with Ouma’s. He doesn’t need to be teased for that. Despite his best efforts, he finds himself missing the warmth when he does.

Ouma wakes up slowly at first, groggily lifting his head from Momota’s chest and blinking slowly as he processes what he sees. Then something slots into place in his head and he tenses.

“Ah. Good morning, Momota-chan.”

Momota smiles. “Morning, Kokichi.”

Ouma’s face twists into something unreadable. “When did I say we were on a first name basis?”

“You didn’t,” Momota shrugs. “But I called Shuuichi by his first name after like. Five days. And I didn’t even know him that well.” Momota rolls his head from side to side to pop his neck, and Ouma cringes slightly. “I’d like to be closer to you,” he says truthfully.

Ouma cringes. “Fine. But only because I know I can’t stop you. You’re still Momo-chan in my heart.”

Momota beams, squeezing Kokichi for a moment before letting him go so he has the option to leave if he wants. He doesn’t think he’s hallucinating the way Kokichi hugs him back, ever so slightly.

Kokichi pushes himself off of Momota, taking his seat next to him on the couch instead. Momota hopes no one walked in to find the way they were sleeping. He doesn’t want to have to explain himself to anyone. He cares about Kokichi in ways he doesn’t quite understand yet, and if anyone has an issue with that, it isn’t their problem. He knows it would be hell if Harumaki ever found out just how close he was to the supreme leader. 

It’s not like he’s dating him, or even close to that. To be close to Kokichi is different than to be close to anyone else. He likes to think he’s breaking down the barriers preventing Kokichi from trusting others, but he can’t know for sure. Momota wants to prove to Kokichi that he can be trusted. And bit by bit, Kokichi is growing more and more receptive to his attempts. It makes something in Momota’s chest happy to know that he’s helping him in some way.

“Momo-chan, thinking is my thing,” Kokichi pouts, breaking Momota out of his stupor. Momota falters first a moment before shooting Kokichi his signature smile.

He knows he has a while to go before he can really claim to know and be close to Ouma Kokichi.

Momota likes to think that he’s getting there.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you liked this!


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